


Like Clockwork

by Caswingsuniverse



Category: Supernatural, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dean and Sam own a diner, Fluff, Homeless!Daryl, M/M, Sexual Content, Some angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 02:05:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8949481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caswingsuniverse/pseuds/Caswingsuniverse
Summary: One day, Dean finds a homeless man digging through his diner's trash. After posting a letter encouraging said stranger should eat inside the diner next time, Dean meets Daryl- a quiet, mysterious man with a deep southern drawl. And Dean falls, hard.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for my girlfriend :) Please enjoy as well.

When John and Mary Winchester decided to open a diner in the late-70s, neither of them imagined that their red leather booths, juicy burgers and flaky apple pies would become a staple of the town they moved to as newlyweds. By no means a big time city, Amelia Island was the perfect combination of urbanization and good old Southern hospitality. They found the empty space in one of the historic districts before discovering Mary was pregnant with their first son. 

As Mary’s cravings and baby bump grew, so did the Winchester’s plans for the small diner. They wanted to mimic the joint they went on their first date, an even smaller place in rural Kansas. So as John shaped thick boards of hardwood into counter tops, Mary developed menus and made appointments with local butchers and produce stores. In the end, the store opened only a couple months after Dean Winchester was born. There’s a picture above the bar of John and Mary at the Grand Opening of the Clockwork Diner, Dean’s smile gummy and toothless, but bright as ever. 

The years that followed were shaky, demanding John to find work in auto shops as Mary continued managing the diner. But by the time Samuel Winchester was born in ‘83, Clockwork was a neighborhood favorite. 

Or so the story goes if anyone asks either of the Winchester boys. It’s a story Dean thinks about every time he has to talk himself into crawling out of bed to have the diner opened for 8 a.m. breakfast on Sundays. 

Already halfway through his second cup of coffee, Dean’s awake enough to actually enjoy the early morning light on the rustic brick before him. He unlocks the front door, allowing a small smile at the quiet road outside the large front windows. Summer is already creeping into the air, the slight humidity tickling Dean’s skin as he turns up the thermostat.

Dean takes off his flannel and sets up his radio. While the heavy beats of Metallica fills the empty store, he goes about getting everything ready. Sundays were a special day in Clockwork Diner. Both him and Sam opened early, then took turns cooking up a breakfast buffet for the local shelters and any other folks awake so early. 

It’s an easy rhythm, the process of wiping down counters, pulling all the chairs off the tables, checking the ingredient lists, firing up the grill. The motions almost match the changing beats of the songs he listens too. It settles a calm over him. He smiles softly at the eggs solidifying before him, listening to bacon sizzle into flavor, and thinks back to his days of doing homework at the bar while his mother cooked. Back then, he never would have pictured himself as the next person with a spatula in his hand, yet he found that he belonged after a years of other work. This is home.

The rest of the morning flows smoothly, Cas and Charlie both clocking in at 7:30 on the dot to set up the tables. Dean greets both his employees with a friendly smile as they push past him in the small space. 

“And are we getting any breakfast today?” Charlie asks, grin almost as wide as the plates Castiel begins to count behind her. 

Dean rolls his eyes, shoveling more eggs into the large serving pan. “When have ya ever not had breakfast on Sunday?”

Charlie bounces on her feet, then purposefully bumps her hip into Castiel’s. “He’s made too many eggs again, that means he’s making pie tonight.”

Castiel and Dean both glance at the large yellow pile. Castiel snorts while Dean frowns. “I hope it’s blueberry this time. It’s the best one for breakfast.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Dean glares at his two friends. “I did not make too many eggs.”

Castiel pats Dean’s shoulder as he walks past to go put out silverware. “You made enough for at least 40 people when we only have about 20 come in.” 

Dean stutters for a second, throwing his arms into the air for a second. “Even if I did make too many eggs, how the fuck does that connect with me makin enough pie y’all get leftovers.”

Charlie’s smirk softens into a kinder smile as she lifts a stack of place. “It means you’re in a mothering mood. Like a Southern grandma, always ready to feed her babies cookies.” 

Before Dean can come back with a smart remark, Charlie swoops out of the kitchen, her and Castiel’s laughter filling in what the quiet music couldn’t. Dean stares at his steaming eggs, shaking his head, but grumbling happily to himself as he finishes cooking. 

 

The rest of the morning flows the same as ever. Dean flirts and charms his way through the breakfast hours. Loyal customers flit in and out, bringing him the latest town gossip as he fills their coffee mugs. It allows that sense of belonging to sizzle in his bones, reminds him to silently thank his parents for this place. Because even after everything, every failed relationship, every dead end job, every unhappy day, Clockwork still stood, waiting for him to come back. 

With dishes ready to be rinsed and put in the washer, Dean rubs his hands on the front of his apron. He stares at the large bag of trash that needs to be taken out. The top is littered with leftover eggs and bacon and biscuits. He hates wasting food, but even after 4 years working at the diner, he can never get the amount right. He ties the top of the bag, balancing it on the back of his shoulder to carry it out back. The weight presses into his shoulder blade, making him grunt as he pushes the door open with his hip. It’s still quiet out despite it being almost ten, a comfort to Dean after spending time talking with everyone. 

He looks up at the sky, watching the hints of orange fade into a clear blue. There aren’t many clouds, but Dean knows it’ll probably rain later that day as the heat pushes weather from the ocean. He enjoys the slow build of pressure, the reassuring consistency of thunderstorms. The thoughts fill his head as he trudges to the dumpster. 

He freezes when a noise comes from the metal frame. A large rustling and a grunt. In defense, Dean drops the bag in a large clunk. “Anyone out here?” 

He knows, logically, that no smart person would ask such a question. He flinches at the sound of his own voice, then moves closer to the dumpster. A gasp echoes through the back alley, and Dean takes another step. “Hey, it’s okay if you are back here, I’m not gonna hurt no one. Just come on out.”

Dean makes his voice soft as possible, hoping that his decision isn’t a bad one as a body jumps out of the dumpster and starts sprinting down the street. Dean jogs out onto the sidewalk calling out for the man to wait. When the figure doesn’t slow, Dean frowns at the empty street. 

Going back to the dumpster, Dean throws the new trash in. He notices one of the bags is ripped open, the hamburger meat and pasta from the night before partially pulled from the bag. The sight makes Dean’s stomach drop. The man was probably homeless based on the grey tint of his shirt, and comes to Clockwork because Dean doesn’t believe in serving leftover food. Looking back at the street, Dean sighs. Mary always believed in helping others, opening the doors of the diner to those who needed a good meal. 

Glancing up at the sky to acknowledge his mother’s memory, he quickly heads back into the diner and goes up to his office. After a few minutes of furious typing, he’s printed out papers to tape to the dumpster and front window. 

To the person going through our trash for their next meal,  
You’re a human being and are worth more than a meal from a dumpster. Please come on in during our operating hours for a sandwich, fresh fruit and a cup of water at no charge. No questions asked. 

-Your friend, the owner 

The next day, no one shows. Dean looks out the back door several times in search of the man who’d gone through the trash. He even had Sam start keeping a lookout. 

“Dean, he probably won’t come back if you keep looking for him like that. He probably thinks you’re going to call the police.”

Dean looks up at his brother over his paperwork. Dean frowns, the movement making his wire reading glasses slide down his nose a little. “I guess I see what you’re saying, Sammy.”

Sam rolls his eyes, shuffling through his own pile of paperwork. “I’m just saying that if you stop running outside every five minutes, he might actually stop in.”

So Dean tries that tactic. He forces himself to stay inside the diner while he works. His feet tap while he waits for the time to take out the trash. His eyes snap up every time the bell on the door rings. And still nothing. Nothing for two more days. 

It’s just after the lunch rush that the door swings open. No one else is in the restaurant. Dean let everyone go knowing he could handle the shop by himself on a Monday. Dean hears the chime and saunters into the dining room. 

“Hey, welcome to Clockwork-” Dean cuts himself off when he sees the man standing on the door mat. 

The man’s dark hair lies limp over his face, but his skin appears clean. The thin shirt he wears does little to hide toned chest and arms. And nothing takes away from the icy eyes darting around the store before settling onto Dean. 

With a gruff voice, the man finally speaks. “If the offer still stands, I’d like to take ya up on that sandwich.” 

Dean blinks, lost in the color of the man’s eyes before coming back to himself. Dean shakes his head, then gestures to the tables. “Of course it still stands. Take a seat, man. lemme get ya some water.” 

While the man sits at one of the booths closer to the door, Dean quickly shuffles behind the bar. He watches the man as he fills a glass with water, liquid spilling over the side when he doesn’t pay attention. Dean curses softly, wiping the water off on his jeans. He takes it to the man, placing it on the table. 

Dean rocks on his heels for a second, staring as the man lifts the glass and takes a long sip. The man’s throat bobs with each gulp, and Dean can’t help but follow the line of the man’s jaw. Dean clears his throat. “So, you want pb&j? Ham and cheese? I got some roast beef, too. I make a mean philly cheese steak.” 

The man puts the mostly empty glass down, snatching up a napkin to wipe his mouth. “Ham n cheese ‘s fine. Thanks.” 

The man’s voice echoes with a deep twang. As Dean goes back into the kitchen, he wonders what the man’s name is. He wonders how he can make the man talk more. Dean quickly pulls the ingredients out, throwing together a sandwich. He grabs a handful of grapes and some potato chips as well. Passing the soda fountain, he fills a different glass with Gatorade. 

Dean has the food in front of the guy in a matter of minutes. He steps back from the table, looking at everything and clapping his hands together once. The man stares at the food, then up at Dean. He offers a small smile, voice soft when he says, “Thank you, sir.”

Dean shakes his head and raises his hands, heart skipping a beat at the smile. He scolds himself in his mind for the reaction. “No need for formalities, man. I’m Dean.”

The man’s smile grows a little, and Dean finds himself blushing a little at the sight. “Thank you for the food, Dean.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Dean looks around at the empty restaurant and nods. “I’ll let ya eat n peace then.” 

The man doesn’t offer any other words and Dean’s stomach drops. He wishes the stranger would at least give him a name. But Dean did say that no questions asked. So Dean goes back to the kitchen to eat his own lunch. 

The stranger eats slowly as if enjoying each individual bite. Dean mindlessly eats his own sandwich, mind racing as he wonders what will happen to the man next. Dean definitely doesn’t want the man to continue to eat from the trash. Dean washes down his sandwich with a coke as the man finishes eating the grapes. The stranger is standing to leave when Dean rushes out. He holds a hand up towards the man. 

“Wait!”

Those blue eyes glance back at him, looking Dean up and down before raising an eyebrow. 

Dean clears his throat and crosses his arms over his chest to hide his eagerness. “You’re welcome to come in again if ya need food. Don’t hesitate.” 

A small smile lights up the stranger’s face. “I’ll remember that, Dean. Thanks.”

With that, the guy’s gone. He ambles down the street, past the storefronts until Dean can’t see him anymore. Dean sighs, and cleans up the man’s dishes. He just hopes the guy takes his offer seriously.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two :) I'm hoping to have the next one up within the next couple of days. Thanks for reading <3

In the days that follow, Dean still can’t stop turning his attention to the door, to the streets beyond the diner. He wonders if the man has food, a warm place to stay. He often has to shake his head, constantly waking himself up. He started spacing out regularly, bumping into things, even burning himself once. 

 

At the moment, Castiel stands next to Dean, helping stack dishes. The shorter man looks up at Dean, eyes squinting as they work. Dean notices the odd stare and sighs. “What’s up, Cas?”

 

“What makes you think something’s up, Dean?” his friend retorts, a small smirk ruining the expression of mock innocence. 

 

“You got somethin to say, so just say it.” Dean tenses, waiting for Castiel to berate him. Castiel had been the Winchester’s friend since grade school, when Dean had kissed the wide-eyed lanky kid named after an angel. The two developed a strong bond, one that extended to Sam. Cas had fallen into the family fold easily, meaning he judges Dean just as Sam does. Though, Cas calls Dean out on his bullshit more often than their younger brother. 

 

“You’ve been tense since that homeless man came here to eat.”

 

Castiel doesn’t offer any other words, just leans his hip against the counter and waits for Dean to respond. Dean nods, looking at the dishes they’ve stacked. “I’m worried bout him, Cas.”

 

“He’s like all the other homeless guys dotting the island. Why does this one bother you so much?”

 

The words punch Dean in the chest. Sam and Dean did as much as they could for those who lived on the island. They opened their doors for free breakfast, took leftover clothes to the shelter, donated money to them. Those thin cheeks, those dull eyes, they all reminded Dean of the dreams he had. The ones where him and Sam are alone, where their mother is dead and their father is drunk. Those nightmares where Dean couldn’t feed himself or Sam. Dean felt for every homeless person on the island, but something about this stranger makes his chest tight. Dean furrows his eyebrows, rubbing his palms on his jeans. “I dunno, man. I just… feel like I gotta help him for some reason. But I don’t know what to do. What should I do?”

 

Clutching a plate, Dean looks up. He meets Castiel’s soft eyes. Looking up, Dean’s eyes meet Cas’s soft ones. Cas smiles a little, rubbing his chin. “If you’re that worried, when he comes back, offer him a job.” 

 

Dean blinks, staring at Cas for a moment before grinning wide. “That’s a great idea!”

 

Castiel chuckles, hitting Dean on the back. “I know, Dean.” 

 

The two men share a smile, then go back to their chores. They’re setting up the dining room, taking down chairs and putting out placemats, when there’s a small knock on the front door. Dean’s eyes flash to the door immediately, a gasp tumbling from his mouth when he sees the man on the other side of the glass. 

 

Dean rushes to the door, grin wide across his face. He trips on a table leg in his hurry. Castiel laugh, a low rumble of a chuckle, sounds over the quiet music Dean’s playing. Glaring at Castiel, Dean unlocks the door. Castiel only smirks and goes back to work. Dean smiles a little as he opens the door. The man looks a little worse for wear this time. His hair falls limply over his face, scruff darker, dirt staining his cheeks. Somehow, it makes his eyes shine brighter, even shadowed by the sun. 

 

“Hey, man. Hungry?” Dean asks. 

 

The stranger looks down at Dean’s boots, then up at Dean again. The submissive gesture makes Dean’s heart twist in his chest. Wary eyes glance past Dean at Castiel, and the stranger takes a step back. 

 

“I don’t wanna be a bother,” the man mumbles, arms cross over his chest to hide the dirty shirt he wears. 

 

A pang of fear makes Dean’s fingers tingle. He holds his arm out, gesturing to the inside of the diner. “It’s not a bother, I’m offering.”

 

The stranger nods at Castiel as he steps inside the diner. “Didn’t know ya had customers this time a day.”

 

The man’s voice is low, more gruff, like he hasn’t had something to drink in the few days since Dean last saw him. Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “Nah, he works here.”

 

The stranger stops just inside the door, standing next to Dean as he watches Castiel come towards them. Dean puffs his chest out a little when he notices how close the stranger is to him. When he realizes his actions, he blinks and relaxes his shoulders. As Dean closes the door, Castiel holds out a hand.

 

“I’m Castiel, nice to meet you.”

 

Dean turns to watch the scene unfold, eyebrows raised a little when the stranger takes Castiel’s hand. “Daryl.” 

 

Dean heart skips a beat at the sound of the man’s name. Daryl. The harsh sound mixed with a slight slur at the end sounds perfect. Matches the man’s southern drawl. Dean stares at their joined hands and his stomach drops. It twists in on itself. Daryl told Cas his name. Not Dean. Daryl touched Cas first. Not Dean. 

 

Dean bites the inside of his cheek to stop his thoughts, focusing instead on the still wary expression on Daryl’s face. “I’ve got a kick ass potato salad today. Made it myself.” 

 

Daryl’s eyes slide back to Dean as he let's go of Castiel’s hand. Dean’s chest feels lighter when the two are no longer touching, and Dean bites the tip of his tongue. He shouldn’t be this hurt over something so simple. Jealousy, as it was, never meant good things. Jealousy made him fight with his brother over the last cookie, made him go silent for days when John seemed to favor Sam more, made his body tense whenever he saw his crushes talk with people besides him. He’s been jealous, he’s worked through it, but this is different. Too sudden. He swallows that sour taste down, tries to bury it. 

 

“I don wanna take away from ya, Dean. A glass a water is enough for me,” Daryl says, fists clenching by his sides. 

 

Dean’s eyes flicker to the slight movement. From the few moments Dean’s interacted with the man, he can tell Daryl’s a man of few words. His actions are thought out. That restraint makes Dean shift on his feet. He wants the man to be comfortable. Despite that, his smile falters a little and he steps forward. “You aren’t taking anything from me, Daryl.”

 

Dean’s back shivers as he says the man’s name for the first time. The sound feels right, like saying his brother’s name or singing Led Zeppelin. Sighing, Daryl stares down at the floor. “M serious, Dean. All I need is some water. S hard to come by. Can’t just plant myself by a fountain, scares the tourists.”

 

“Daryl, I’m gonna serve you whatever I want to serve you, n you’re gonna eat it. Please.”

 

Daryl’s stare turns a little cold, fists fully clenched. The sharp curve of Daryl’s jaw clenches, drawing Dean’s attention to it once again. Daryl has a look Dean’s seen before, in his dreams, on the faces of the homeless he serves on Sundays. It’s a look of desperation, longing for dignity. Dignity that was never lost.

 

Daryl turns to leave, eyes lost to Dean. Hand reaching out, Dean stops the man from walking out of the restaurant. “Daryl… I’m sorry. I’ll get ya that water.”

 

Maybe it’s the words. Maybe it’s the tone of his voice. Maybe it’s the lack of dignity in Dean’s own expression. But those ice-coated eyes crack under Dean’s words, something warm and suddenly vulnerable shining in Daryl’s eyes. It’s there for a second, a second long enough for Dean to see. 

 

“Sit, please.”

 

Dean can’t tear his eyes away from Daryl’s face. When the sun hits the man’s skin, it shimmers with a life Dean has never known. It’s stitched together with a few scars, masked with dried mud and sweat. Dean holds a gasp in his chest, lips parted as Daryl scowls at the floor. Daryl turns his face away, following Castiel to a booth. “Alright, Dean.”

 

Stumbling back for a second, Dean blinks. He rubs a hand down his face, then disappears into the kitchen. He hasn’t snapped like that since Sam was younger. He chalks it up to his mothering instinct, the part of him that loves protecting others. The part of him that still connects him to his mother. He fills a glass of water, glad that he can at least do this. He then scoops out some potato salad onto a plate and makes a turkey sandwich. He’ll eat, maybe inspire Daryl to finally accept his offer. 

 

He takes the plate and the glass, to find Castiel setting up the remaining tables. Castiel moves silently around the newcomer, meeting Dean’s eyes when he comes around the corner. Castiel nods, then makes his way back to the kitchen, washcloth still in hand. Placing the plate full of food on the table, Dean slides into the booth opposite of Daryl. 

 

Eyebrows furrowed under his bangs, Daryl scowls. “Dean, I just-”

 

“Need water. So I brought ya water. This is my lunch. Though maybe you’d split it with me.”

 

Dean offers a small smile to sweeten his words. He pulls out two sets of utensils. Daryl stares at them, then at the food. “That’s a lot of food.”

 

“Beggars can’t be choosers, so ya get what ya get.” 

 

Daryl huffs, and at first Dean thought it was exasperation. He fears that Daryl will stand and leave. But watching the corner of Daryl’s mouth turn up, Dean realizes it’s a suppressed laugh. He tries to recall the sound, but it’s not a perfect memory. He wants it to happen again, wants to coax real laughter from the man in front of him. 

 

When Daryl offers no words in response, just stares at the food in front of him, Dean continues. “You can pretend you’re havin lunch with a friend instead of whatever bullshit you’re worried about.” 

 

Daryl grunts and takes one of the napkins holding utensils. He unrolls it carefully, short fingernails pulling open the white tissue slowly. “It ain’t your problem. I’m not yer problem.”

 

“Never said you were,” Dean mumbles softly as he takes out his own fork. Daryl’s eyebrow quirks at the words, and he takes a bite of the potato salad. 

 

“I gotta confess, I’ve never ate lunch with a friend. Hard to pretend when ya got no experience.”

 

Dean watches as Daryl inspects the forkful of potato salad. The man doesn’t eat it just yet, just holds the fork and looks to Dean. Offering another smile, Dean takes his own bite. “Well, congratulations. Ya got a friend, and we’re eating lunch.”

 

The appraising look Daryl gives makes Dean’s palms sweat. With the silence that settles over the diner, Dean assumes that Castiel went out for lunch to leave the two alone. He thinks of their earlier conversation just as Daryl takes his first tentative bite of food. 

 

Daryl’s eyes widen a little at the taste of food, and he goes for another bite. “Ya weren’t kiddin, this is some kick ass potato salad.” 

 

Dean’s smile turns into a full blown grin, the Winchester grin that’s fell many strangers. Daryl takes in that smile and his cheeks warm. Dean doesn’t notice, the light not hitting Daryl’s face the right way. Pressing his lips together, Daryl clutches his fork a little tighter. Dean eyes the tense way Daryl holds himself. 

 

Silence settles between them again, and while it’s companionable, it’s stiff. Dean eats a small portion of the potato salad, letting Daryl eat his fill. Dean eats half of the sandwich, then pushes the plate closer to Daryl. The man glares at Dean, but accepts the plate and eats faster. 

 

Dean leans back against the booth and watches the man. His eyes trace over the curve of Daryl’s shoulders, down his biceps. The man’s fit. Not the wiry kind of fit that suggests months of malnutrition. It’s the kind of fit that suggests exercise, constant work and movement. Those arms, they’re the kind of strong Dean can image wrapped around him. Dean blushes at the thought and stares down at the table. He clears his throat. 

 

“I thought this is supposed to be lunch with a friend,” Daryl mumbles, head tilted down so his eyes look over Dean from underneath his hair. 

 

A surprised chuckle escapes from Dean’s chest, shattering the silence. Daryl hides his smile as he shakes his head, then looks up. 

 

“How bout we start with introductions?” Dean asks, tilting his head to the side. Daryl nods, so Dean continues. “My name’s Dean Winchester, I’m an Aquarius. I like long walks on the beach and frisky partners. And I own this joint.”

 

Daryl blinks at the intro and huffs again, to Dean’s contentment. “‘M Daryl Dixon. I don’t give a shit bout star shines, I don’t mind the beach, n I’ve got no comment bout any… partners. I own myself.”

 

Dean bites the inside of his cheek. He smirks to himself. “Nice to meet ya, Daryl.”

 

“Same to you, Deano.” Daryl looks around the diner, eyes softened. “You got a nice place.”

 

The prideful grin that lights up Dean’s face makes Daryl stop chewing for a moment. When the man swallows, Daryl places his fork down. The potato salad is gone, the sandwich lying on the plate still. 

 

Daryl looks out at the bar, at the framed pictures and old posters, with soft eyes. “Used to come here when I was young.”

 

Dean watches Daryl, watches the nostalgia smooth over the man’s face. That swell of pride warms Dean’s chest as he crossed his fingers in his lap. “Yeah?”

 

Those blue eyes meet Dean’s, the steel in them melting away. “My favorite was the garlic burger. First time I had one, I used all the money in my piggy bank, snuck over here on my bike, n bought myself some real red meat. Best shit I had in months. Woman who served me, she looked like an angel, hair blonde as gold.”

 

The words make Dean’s eyes water. His chest feels light with the thought Daryl could love this place. But the fact that this man Dean found rifling through his trash also remembered his mother, remembered her with the same reverence Dean does, that makes his heart skip a beat. 

 

Daryl searches Dean’s face and he tucks his hair behind his ears. “She had the same green eyes you do.”

 

“She was my mother, Mary,” Dean murmurs, holding Daryl’s gaze. 

 

“Didn’t matter I dragged all kinds a filth through here, she smiled at me, called me sweetheart. When I tried to leave a tip, she pushed it back into my hand and sent me with a to-go box with another burger.”

 

Tears shimmer in Dean’s eyes. The story matches everything Dean knows about his mother, about her love, her kindness, her compassion. She was a badass, no doubt. She taught Dean to throw a punch long before John even thought to. Dean shakes his head and blinks away the tears. 

 

“That why you came back?”

 

Daryl rubs a hand over his face, then rests his chin on his palm. He nods, lips squashed against his skin. “I passed by one day, saw the place still open. Thought I’d dig through the leftovers of my childhood n find some scrap of happiness.” 

 

Their gazes meet again, and Dean’s stomach drops. Castiel’s suggestion wells up with a sense of rightness, pushes it’s way through him until he feels still. “You could work here.”

 

Daryl startles at the words, leaning up and back, away from the man in front of him. There’s shock in this silence, and refusal in the furrow of Daryl’s eyebrows. Dean holds out a hand, palm stretched out to Daryl. “I was gonna start looking for someone else. You love this place. It’ll help ya with whatever yer going through.”

 

“Dean, I don’t even gotta place to stay. I can’t-”

 

“Stay with me. I live in the apartment upstairs.”

 

That frozen look returns to Daryl’s eyes before the man looks away. “I can’t pay rent.”

 

“Then you’ll help with the chores. Jesus, Daryl. I wanna help. You came back here for somethin, lemme give it to you.” 

 

When Daryl doesn’t answer, just continues staring out the window, Dean panics. He stands, moving closer to the man. He puts a hand on Daryl’s arm. “Daryl?”

 

Daryl sighs, glancing up at Dean through his hair. “Your mama would be proud.” 

 

Dean frowns a little at the words, ignores the fact they make his heart flutter. “That a yes?”

“Yeah, Winchester. Looks like ya got yerself a roomie.”


End file.
